


Yours

by Akikofuma



Series: Witcher Prompts [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Feelings & Smut, Light BDSM, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sort Of, Teasing, geralt is bad at feelings, possessive!Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: He almost took pity on the Witcher. Would have perhaps considered cutting this little game of his short and heading upstairs. Trying again to talk things through. If said Witcher hadn’t been an absolute git for the better part of a fortnight. So, the game continued._______________Written in a prompt exchange for the wonderful doberainbow <3Geralt is being an ass, and Jaskier just isn't having it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955077
Comments: 25
Kudos: 298





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doberainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doberainbow/gifts).



Most days, Jaskier liked to think he was in a good, healthy relationship.

True, it had taken over two decades before Geralt, the stubborn mule, had even admitted that he had feelings for the bard; a good while longer to undo all the bad habits they’d both slipped into.

Jaskier did his best to not run head first into danger, and on especially trying days for his Witcher, kept his flitting thoughts to himself. Geralt had made an effort to be more open, to talk about things instead of ignoring them, until they burst out of him like an explosion.

It had taken time, but it had all worked out in the end.

They’d carried on the way they always had; Jaskier singing the Witchers praises, while Geralt hunted whatever monster he’d gotten a contract for. They spent many nights sleeping under the stars, still; though Geralt had become more tolerating of the bards wish for a hot bath and a soft bed.

Bad habits, however, had the tendency to creep their way back into Geralts life. Not often enough for Jaskier to mind; all he had to do was point out what the Witcher was doing, which usually led to a frown, followed by an apology. If Jaskier was lucky, Geralt would even offer up a soft kiss, the surrounding people (if there were any) be damned.

So, all in all, a good relationship.

Except his Witcher had been in a foul mood for days now. Slipping back into old patterns, silently brooding, unwilling to share whatever burdened him. Snapping orders at Jaskier rather than asking for things. When he had pointed it out, Geralt grunted an unconvincing “sorry”, only to continue doing what Jaskier had just complained about.

It got so bad, he even reverted back to simply ignoring the bard when it suited him, and, well. Jaskier just couldn’t allow that to happen.

He hadn’t spent twenty years waiting for the Witcher to pull his head out of his ass and be with him, to let him slip away like this.

So he came up with a plan.

If Geralt wanted to act like he had when they met, then Jaskier could certainly do the same. Not enough to actually upset the Witcher; yet just enough to remind him that things were different now. That he couldn’t get away with hurting Jaskiers feelings as he used to.

His plan would come into action at the next tavern they found.

* * *

Geralt was being an ass.

He was fully aware of it.

He just couldn’t help himself.

It had all, of course, started with a fucking joke. Jaskier had been in a playful mood, and he’d teased Geralt. The bard had been preforming at a wedding, and much to his dismay, Geralt had been asked to tag along. Refusing the bard had become much more difficult when he knew he’d be thanked, and how, when the event was over.

He couldn’t even remember the exact words; what it came down to was this: How very lucky Geralt was that Jaskier didn’t mind giving himself to the Witcher in all ways a husband would, yet never asking for such open, outright commitment.

Geralt had mulled over the statement the entire night, and the next day. His reward for coming having been pushed back until the next morning, on account of the bards sore feet and exhaustion. Honestly, he didn’t mind. It was doubtful he would have been able to enjoy it as he usually would.

He _was_ lucky.

Jaskier had waited on him for so long, forgiven him so graciously for all the sorrow Geralt had caused him over the years. Welcomed Geralt back in his life, and soon his bed, with a smile as bright as sunshine. When he’d introduced the bard to Ciri, he’d immediately bonded with her, making an effort right from the start to establish a good relationship. By the time they’d parted ways, Jaskier with Geralt, Ciri with Yen, he’d almost been convinced the cub preferred Jaskier over him.

The Witcher didn’t deserve any of it; not the kindness, nor the devotion, the loyalty, or the love Jaskier so readily gave to him every day; he gave it to Geralt happily anyway.

So, Geralt decided, he’d have to do something to at least show his lark how much he appreciated him. How much he loved him, even if he was shit at saying the actual words.

Jaskier had a weakness for all the things Geralt was terrible at. Poetic declarations of love during a romantic dinner. Poems written by his lovers, filled to the brim with long, fancy words. He liked expensive oils and jewelry the Witcher couldn’t afford.

So wrapped up had he gotten in all this thinking, he’d barely spared a thought to anything else. His mind full to the brim with ideas, desperately trying to come up with something, _anything_ , he could do to prove himself.

It haunted him at night and stole his sleep, filled his days with uncertainty and self-loathing. It tore at his nerves, this appalling inability to express himself he’d struggled with for so long. 

Before he knew it, he was back to the way he had been not so long ago. Snapping at the bard when his patience ran out, grunting or humming when he wanted to avoid an answer,  despite knowing full well that he was upsetting him. 

Which only lead to more pressure to make some grand gesture, to make it special, the singular most romantic thing Geralt could imagine in order to apologize and make things right. 

He just needed more time to figure things out. 

* * *

The tavern was crowded, filled up with villagers either already drunk, or well on their way. Despite the mild evening air being let in by windows opened wide, Jaskier was sweating. Coins were falling at the bards feet as people sang along to his songs, swaying to the tunes of his lute and voice. The conditions could not have been more perfect.

He’d opened his doublet under the guise of overheating, allowing his chemise to peek out from below. Jaskier had chosen his outfit carefully that night. Doublet and breeches a dark blue, with black stitching and embroiders, which he knew to be Geralts favorite. 

The chemise beneath, however, was the important part. 

It was a favorite of Geralts as well, though for completely different reasons than the doublet. Crafted from  fine, expensive material it was thin enough to allow whoever looked closely a view on the bards chest and stomach. Even more, sweating as he was, it clung to him, along the curve of his ribs and the slope of his back. He’d bought it for Geralts eyes alone, but alas; desperate times called for desperate measures. 

With only the top twp buttons undone, he wasn’t showing off anything just yet. Simply allowed the fabric to show just enough for his Witcher to realize what it was. 

Already, Geralt was glaring at him from the corner he’d chosen to settle in. Eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, lips pressed thin in an unhappy frown. Could almost hear Geralt in his mind, telling him to  _stop messing around and close the damn doublet._

Wonderful.

Keeping himself from grinning became a real challenge throughout the evening. Which each songs, another button was popped open. With each one, the Witchers expression darkened. Jaskier pretended not to notice. Kept dancing around the room as he sang, fully aware of a few patrons eyeing him greedily as he moved around them. 

He wasn’t 20 anymore, but he had aged well. Was still desirable to most.  It hadn’t much mattered since he’d gotten together with his white wolf; tonight, however, he was taking full advantage.

Jaskier had been delighted to learn more about the inner workings of the (thanks to him) famous Geralt of Rivia. How sweet the usually harsh man could be, however awkward his attempts were. How much he cared about the ones close to him, how far he’d go to protect them. 

Then smaller things, how Geralt didn’t mind a cold breakfast, but preferred his supper to be warm. That “hot” water, to the Witcher, meant literally almost boiling. That, if Jaskier ran his nails just right along his lovers neck, his Witcher would give a sweet little rumble, almost a purr. 

So many discoveries, all because Geralt had finally lowered his walls and let the bard in. 

One of his favorite discoveries hadn’t been anything sweet or romantic. It had been the fact that Geralt, much like his name sake, was possessive. Not in the way that didn’t allow Jaskier his own life, make his own decisions. At most, he voiced his dislike for something, but ultimately accepted it. 

Even now, if Jaskier left it at this, a half opened doublet and a cheeky wink for a pretty girl, his Witcher would not intercede. Just fuck him a bit harder that night, growling into his ear about showing off what was his. 

The bard had no intention of stopping. Felt a thrill shoot up his spine at the thought of what would transpire once his performance was finished, allowing him to push on to the final part of his plan. 

By the time he was bowing to the crowd, thanking them for their hospitality, two more buttons had come undone, a single one left, straining to hold his doublet together; showing off his chest and upper stomach, even his nipples. 

It took naught but a quick glance to know that his Witcher was  _fuming_ . 

Here Jaskier was, putting on display what rightfully belonged to the Witcher alone. Openly flaunting his body to whomever cared to see, positively giddy knowing Geralt wouldn’t cause a scene in a tavern full of people. Forced to wait until Jaskier retired to their rented room to get him alone. 

He almost took pity on the Witcher. Would have perhaps considered cutting this little game of his short and heading upstairs. Trying again to talk things through. _If_ said Witcher hadn’t been an absolute git for the better part of a fortnight. So, the game continued. 

Instead of slinking back to their table, Jaskier wandered off towards the bar, hips swaying as he walked. He wasn’t a teenager any longer, but his ass was still full and round, skin still taunt and smooth; still bounced and jiggled when slapped. 

Could practically feel golden eyes trained on his back, burning with anger, with  _jealousy_ . 

He considered, for a brief moment, if perhaps he was enjoying himself just a tad too much. 

Shrugging the thought off as he ordered two ales. No doubt Geralt expected him to return now, to sit beside him, lean into his side; maybe even whisper something lewd into his ear. Jaskier did none of that. 

He turned to a man he’d watched during his performance. Tall, broad in the shoulders; older than the bard, though not by much. Handsome, in a rugged way, with white streaking his dark hair. A  convenient target. The stranger hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Jaskier from the moment he’d walked into the place.

_Perfect_ , Jaskier thought, sauntering over.  _This is almost too easy._

* * *

Geralt was seething.

He hadn’t thought much of the bards choice in clothing before he sang his songs. At most, he’d thought his lark wanted to get fucked that night. Knew all to well that Geralt couldn’t resist him when he wore the nothing fabric, concealing nothing from keen Witcher eyes. He cared little about it peeking out from beneath the thicker fabric. 

Yet as time passed, more buttons had been tugged opened, revealing the bards form to the greedy eyes of men and women alike. 

He’d sat, his fists clenched with rage, as his bard pranced around the tavern. The chemise becoming transparent even to human eyes as sweat began to form on pale skin. Kept himself from snarling like a beast with the last shreds of his control. 

But this.  _This_ was too much for him to bare. 

He’d stayed put when the bard finished performing, then headed for the bar instead of their table.

Had kept his mouth shut as Jaskier joined another man at his table, chatting animatedly with the older man, who made no attempt at concealing his desire to have the bard in his bed.

Breathed  deeply, in and out, fully intending to ignore the provocative behavior. 

Knew when he was being toyed with, and refusing to take part in his larks fiendish little game. 

The determination to not go along with this ploy flew out the window completely when the man made a move to pull Jaskier into his lap. It didn’t matter that Jaskier chuckled awkwardly as he refused. It didn’t matter that the stranger let him go without a word of protest. 

All that mattered was the fact that he was touching what was  _his_ . 

With only two strides, he was beside them, grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck; jerking him back so forcefully he hit the ground. 

“Upstairs.” The single word coming out gruff and sharp as the stranger scrambled away, mumbling his apology, promising he didn’t know the bard was taken. Stinking of fear.

By the end of the night, not a single person in the entire village would doubt who Jaskier belonged to. 

Jaskier, the little shit, didn’t seem phased at all. In fact, a grin so smug Geralt wanted to scream graced his pretty face. His head held high and chin jutting out as if to say  _You don’t scare me, Witcher._

Oh, Geralt would teach the brat a lesson.

Finally, after a few tense moments, his songbird turned on his heels, practically strutting across the room that had gone eerily silent, before disappearing up the stairs that led to their room.

People were staring, and for once, Geralt didn’t care.

“Bring a bath up in the morning.” He grunted, making his way past the innkeeper to join the little minx. “Don’t come in until you’re told.”

* * *

_Mission accomplished._

Jaskier couldn’t have wiped the grin of his face if his life depended on it. Things had gone exactly the way he’d hoped they would.

He felt a little bad for the poor man that no doubt had nearly pissed himself after stumbling into the path of an enraged Witcher. Knowing that Geralt would never hurt anyone unless they asked for it helped quiet the thought. The man would be fine.

If anyone was in trouble, it was the bard himself.

He’d just managed to take off his boots when the door slammed shut behind him. He turned, taking in the one that had entered.

Geralt was baring his teeth, breathing hard, harder even than after a hunt. Like reigning himself in was physically painful, and oh, maybe he _had_ taken it a bit too far.

“What the fuck was that?” The Witcher demanded, stubbornly remaining at the door.

“What ever do you mean?” He replied airily, waving his hand dismissively, as if nothing had happened.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Geralt growled, fingers twitching. “Don’t play dumb. You were fucking flirting with him.”

“Was I?” Jaskier turned his back on the man, shrugging off his doublet after popping open the last button.

“Tell me _why_.”

Jaskier smirked. Geralt had walked into his little trap; now, it had snapped shut.

“If you’re going to act like you did twenty years ago, then _I_ will act like I did back then.”

Silence followed.

In his mind, Jaskier could hear the gears grinding in Geralts head. Taking in the words, their meaning. Considering his answer.

“..I’m sorry.”

Finally. An apology Jaskier could take serious. He turned to face Geralt, hands on his hips and lips pursed. Took him in, his expression, his body language. In the end, Jaskier could never stay mad at his wolf. Not when he was truly sorry.

“Can you tell me why?” Jaskier asked quietly, settling to sit on the bed, motioning for Geralt to join him. “I’ve tried to ask before, but you never gave me an answer.”

“Its stupid.” Geralt huffed, averting his gaze, though he followed the bards invitation. “It shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did.”

“If its upsetting you like this, dearheart, it isn’t stupid.” Tenderly, he placed his hand against the Witchers jaw, urging him to turn his head, to look at him. “Please tell me.”

Geralt sighed; one of those deep, slow sighs that meant he was struggling. Jaskier waited patiently. He’d wait until the end of time if he had to, for Geralt.

“At the wedding.” Geralt finally spoke. “You said I was lucky to have you, even without proclaiming my love. Or getting married. All those sappy things you fawn over. You’re right. I should do more to show you how I feel. Wanted to do something special, to prove it. How I feel about you. Got so caught up in my own head about it, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh Geralt, my love, I was jesting.” Sweet, dumb Geralt. Tying himself in knots over a stupid joke. “I don’t expect any of that from you. I knew from the very beginning that its not who you are, and I am perfectly happy without any of those ‘sappy things’. You show me you love me in all the ways that matter.”

“Hm.” Geralt hummed, pressing his forehead to the bards. “I am sorry for my behavior. And I do. Love you.”

“I love you too.” Jaskier breathed, eyes falling shut, a smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t say I regret teasing you tonight. The way you looked at me..” 

He sighed dreamily. Just thinking about it thrilled him to the core, that stare that screamed of wanting to devour him, to ruin him for everyone else. 

“You did tease me.” Geralt agreed. Suddenly, the world around him shifted. Blinking, Jaskier found himself on his back, looking up at the Witcher. “You were being a brat. Do you know what happens to brats?”

Jaskier swallowed, blood rushing to his groin so quickly, even laying down he was dizzy. 

“What happens to brats?” He asked quietly.

“They get punished.”

* * *

His lark was a beautiful mess beneath him.

Whimpering, squirming, spread open on three of his fingers. Tears streaking reddened cheeks, carefully arranged hair in an absolute mess. Begging for more, for his cock, for anything but this torture. 

Geralt didn’t cave. Kept his hand exactly where it was, spreading his lark wide, but applying only the faintest of pressure against his sweet spot. Leaving his dick untouched and weeping onto his stomach. 

“Say it again.” 

“I’m yours!” Jaskier wailed, desperately trying to pull his wrists from the Witchers firm grasp, keeping them pinned over his head. “I’m yours, only yours, forever yours, Geralt _please!_ ”

“You’ll be good? Hm?” Geralt asked, rewarding his lark with a single, short press of fingers that made him moan. 

  
“Yes! Yesyesyes, I’ll be good, do whatever you want!”

“Won’t go showing off what belongs to me anymore? Wear that slutty chemise for others to see?” 

“Never again, I promise, I swear, gods Geralt, _please just fuck me!_ ” 

Giving a hum, Geralt pretended to consider his choices, if only to hear the bard mewl. 

“Good.” 

The sound Jaskier made when Geralt pulled back his fingers was heart breaking, but fortunately, he knew how to make it better. Filled his lark with his cock, inch by inch, until he was  firmly pressed inside the willing body. Ground his teeth as he forced himself to stay still as Jaskier adjusted to his size. Even after all these years, he still stretched his lark to his limits. 

Once his songbird grew acustomed to being stuffed so full, Geralt let go. Snapped his hips and claimed what was his, over and over, until the bard reached his peak. Sped up as he chased his own, until the tight hole clenching down on him was filled with his spend. 

After, they laid together, Jaskiers back pressed to the Witchers chest, whining with displeasure as the softening member slipped out of him. Always greedy to be filled. Geralt consoling him with a nip to his neck, and a rumble from deep in his chest. 

“Sleep now, little lark. Sleep.” 

* * *

Months later, Jaskier stared down at the item being held out to him in a broad, sword calloused hand. A perfect replica of the necklace Geralt wore, gleaming in the sunlight. 

“Geralt..” He whispered, completely overwhelmed as the Witcher moved to place the gift around his neck. “I- You-”

Geralt shushed him gently. 

“Now, no one will mistake you for anything but mine, little lark.” 

Jaskier blinked the tears from his eyes, his smile so wide it hurt his cheeks, uttering the only reply he could possibly form.

“Yours.” 


End file.
